


unrestrained summer fun

by Diefenbaker



Category: White Collar
Genre: Best Friends, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Summer Vacation, lots of cliche tropes as a treat, set (roughly) after season 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:02:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26051578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Diefenbaker/pseuds/Diefenbaker
Summary: I'm gonna go to Aruba and get my edge back.Mozzie decides to make good on his threat - but not everything goes according to plan.(Set roughly after Season 4, only very few spoilers.)
Relationships: Elizabeth Burke/Peter Burke/Neal Caffrey (implied), Neal Caffrey & Mozzie, Neal Caffrey/Mozzie
Comments: 13
Kudos: 29





	unrestrained summer fun

**Author's Note:**

> All the lovely comments on my other Mozzie fic made me want to write more White Collar! And here I am: a month, 13k words, lots of research (conspiracy theories! quotes! counterfeiting methods!) and more than a few clichéd tropes later. I tried my best to write a coherent case for the plot, but if something doesn't add up, please remember that this was written just for fun.  
> Enjoy!
> 
> (I'm not a native speaker and still new to ao3, so please tell me if anything is wrong with this fic, so that I can fix it!)

> _“One belongs to New York instantly, one belongs to it as much in five minutes as in five years.”_
> 
> ― Thomas Wolfe

###  **Prologue**

The obvious perks of being Neal Caffrey’s best friend are (in no particular order):

  * never getting bored;
  * an excellent view of New York’s sixth most visited tourist attraction;
  * unrestricted access to an enviable collection of choice wines.



The obvious downsides of being Neal Caffrey’s best friend are:

  * his liaison with the FBI, i.e. the government, i.e. the corrupt band of lobbyists and liars who deny all extraterrestrial activity.



A less obvious perk of being Neal’s best friend is having a key to his apartment, _feel free to use it at any time._ Mozzie feels free to use it not just at any time, but, well, _all_ the time. Neal is the only person who never walks away when he sees Mozzie. Neal doesn’t even roll his eyes when Mozzie can’t stop talking about a) the corrupt band of lobbyists and liars who deny all extraterrestrial activity; b) their next big coup; c) why washing your hands before and after taking the subway should be mandatory.

Neal doesn’t even mind that Mozzie uses his key to slip into the apartment in the mornings, as long as he doesn’t wake whoever is sleeping in Neal’s bed. Mozzie knows how to open doors without making any noise. (Professional honor, really.)

He also knows where to get a decent blend of Oolong and a cup of espresso (Italian roast, to go, of course). The recipe for a perfect morning after another terrible night: A hot drink, and Neal, tousled, yawning, smiling. A quiet _Cheers!_ to the prettiest sunrise in the world, cups raised, leaning against the balustrade next to a pair of giant lithic griffins. Just the two of them… until Alex, or Sarah, or whoever happens to wear Neal’s crumpled shirt and not much else, wakes up and pulls a face at the sight of Mozzie.

Lately, Mozzie often walks into an empty apartment. Neal spends his nights elsewhere, and if Mozzie had to take a guess, he’d say that Neal, the thief in the Divor suit, has taken a liking to Mr. and Mrs. Suit.

This unlikely _ménage à trois_ wasn’t the last straw, no, not even close. It’s all been building up, for a long time: Doing your job as a criminal mastermind isn’t easy when the only thing keeping you off the FBI’s radar is the promise of an FBI agent. Sleepless nights turn into nightmare days; it’s an exhausting game that Mozzie plays, barely managing to slip away a second before the blaring sirens turn the corner. He does this for Neal of course. Neal, who yells at him and who holds open the door to his apartment with a frustrated expression, kicking Mozzie out.

 _I thought we were a team_.

Maybe the rain was the last straw. No one likes a rainy summer in New York City.

***

The lady behind the airport security desk can see several items on her screen: clothes (brightly patterned shirts and shorts, folded, not ironed); a snorkel; a pair of flip-flops; three pairs of sunglasses; a phone charger; a very thick book; what looks like a small plastic figurine of a dancing Hawaiian; and a hair drier.

The lady behind the airport security desk doesn’t care about the fact that the man to whom the suitcase belongs is already wearing sunglasses. She also doesn’t care that he is bald. She lets him pass and forgets about him as soon as he picks up his luggage at the end of the conveyor belt.

Later that day, a few minutes before the man’s flight to Aruba is called, she takes a break and walks through the terminal to get to the breakroom. She sees the man, who is sitting in the waiting area, and she watches as he pulls a coin out from behind a small boy’s ear. The little boy smiles and claps his hands.

The lady, who isn’t behind the airport security desk anymore and who’s never been to Aruba, smiles.

What she _doesn’t_ see is this: Two men, easily six feet tall and almost as broad, nodding at each other and following the short, bald man and his suitcase onto the airplane.

What she doesn’t _know_ is this: Sometimes, what looks like a hair drier, or a pair of sunglasses, or a snorkel, is something else entirely.

It’s a matter of perspective. (And of skill, to be honest. You need to know more about roentgen radiation, deflection, and computer software than the average vacationist.)

***

Mozzie isn’t a fan of flying. (Or, well, he _is_ – as long he’s the one in the cockpit.) Sharing an airplane with a hundred people, at least fifty of whom seem to be part of a rowdy wedding party is, quite frankly, annoying. Worse than that are the claustrophobia inducing prospects of being stuck in an airplane with a) snacks that always either contain peanuts and/or lactose b) not nearly enough exits, c) exits that are no use because certain death awaits outside.

The fact that the seats on his left and right are occupied by two massive men doesn’t help.

(The things you are willing to endure just to get a look at Aruba’s famous flamingoes. Unbelievable.)

His seatmates don’t even look at him, but Mozzie can’t shake the feeling that they’re here because of him. It is statistically unlikely that they were both born with the stump of a third arm – so the very defined bulge under their jackets must be a gun. Which also means that they’ve somehow gotten past the airport security, which means that they must have very powerful friends indeed.

The plane has taken off a few seconds ago, leaving all of Mozzie’s very powerful friends out of reach for the next four hours. Mozzie tries to make himself smaller than he already is and attempts some breathing exercises to calm his nerves.

The two thugs still don’t look at him. But one of them pulls a large, brown envelope out of the depths of his suit and places it on the little plastic table in front of Mozzie.

Mozzie doesn’t move. His eyes are glued to the screen two rows in front of them, where a small child is watching _Alvin and the Chipmunks_. Mozzie thinks about his birth parents. Maybe this is what this is all about. Maybe the two men belong to a secret ring of spies who were only waiting for him to leave New York in order to establish contact.

Maybe the envelope contains information about his parents.

Or maybe it contains a picture of Mozzie, a target drawn on his face. (Or worse: a picture of Neal.)

Mozzie stops doing his breathing exercises. He might start to hyperventilate if he thinks _in and out_ one more time.

The two men in the seats beside him have fallen asleep. Their knees are pressed against Mozzie’s legs, keeping him tightly sandwiched between them. (No chance of escape there.) One of them starts snoring and the other one farts, loudly.

Mozzie takes out a perfumed silk handkerchief (intricately monogrammed, but impossible to decipher) and presses it to his nose.

He orders a glass of tomato juice with a shot of vodka and opens the envelope.

He starts reading, Aruba and flamingoes and even Neal momentarily forgotten.

***

The _Santa Cruz Deluxe Resort & Spa_ has four out of five stars on TripAdvisor: it is famous for its unique view of Caribbean Sea (azure blue, salty), its tennis court (hard court), its three swimming pools (with sauna), its gazebo (photographed three years in a row for the SCDR&S calendar, available for free at the reception), and its remarkably good vegan muffins at breakfast.

The _Santa Cruz Deluxe Resort & Spa _is also famous for its unique clientele of gangsters, mafiosos, and tax evaders. These people appreciate the absolute discretion of the staff. In return, they leave excellent reviews on TripAdvisor and do their best to blend in with the usual crowd of clueless German tourists and hobby ornithologists.

Everyone needs a holiday sometimes. A bit of time for himself – time that he won’t spend obsessively thinking about what Neal might be up to in the meantime, _no_ , Mozzie will wear his flipflops and he will look at the palm trees. If he feels adventurous, he might rent a pool float.

He will, however, also carry out the orders that were in the brown envelope. He has no choice, really. They’ve got leverage.

There was a bit of a misunderstanding, but Mozzie won’t tell them that. All he needs to do is make a few calls and no one will notice. The payment is good, and he even brought some of the necessary equipment. If he gets this done soon, he might still have some of his holiday left to try those muffins.

He can deal with this and still enjoy his vacation. Everything is fine.

***

The only thing he can’t deal with is the sight of what’s happening at the reception just as he returns from a trip to the hotel bar, a bottle of Pinot Noir tucked under his arm.

“If you’d be so kind to tell me your name so that I can reserve a room a for you?” says the concierge.

“Of course – it’s Haversham,” answers the tall man with the fedora. “Neal Haversham.”

“Ah, you must be part of the wedding party – ”

“ _Neal?_ ” Mozzie almost trips over the expensive carpet. “What are you doing here?”

Incredulous, Neal turns around. (It’s him. Of course it is.) “ _Moz?_ ”

“- ah, Mr. Haversham, you found the bar! I’m sorry about the power outage this morning, but the good news is,” the concierge smiles, “your brother has just arrived.”

“Have you looked at him?” Mozzie gestures with his bottle at Neal’s exquisite suit and then at himself. “Does _he_ look like he’s _my_ brother?”

“But Mr. Haversham, I – ”

“We share a name, but we’re not… brothers,” Neal graces the concierge with his infamous smile. “He’s my partner.”

“Ah, your _partner_ ,” the concierge nods knowingly. “You’ll be sharing a room then. Here’s your key, breakfast times are 7 am to 11 am. We’re currently having trouble with power outages, but that should be sorted soon. Enjoy your stay, Mr. and Mr. Haversham!”

***

Mozzie shoves Neal into his, no _their_ , hotel room and takes out the hair-drier-that-isn’t-a-hair-drier from his luggage. Without a word, he starts sweeping Neal for bugs. (No need for the FBI to listen to the rant that is burning on his tongue, ready to spill out as soon as he knows that Neal is clean.)

“Why did you tell him that we’re _married_?”

“Hello to you too, Mozzie,” Neal raises an eyebrow and slumps into a chair. “For the record, I didn’t tell him that, he just assumed. And anyways, that’s standard protocol: You accidentally use the same alias as your partner, you pretend that you’re married.”

“That’s not standard protocol, that’s just what _you_ do when you want to have one of your sexy little adventures,” Mozzie reaches for the bottle of Pinot.

“No one said we couldn’t have a sexy little adventure.” Neal huffs a laugh and takes off his hat. “Seriously though, Mozzie, you have to get out of here – this place will be crawling with agents very soon.”

Mozzie doesn’t bother with a glass. He takes a swig directly from the bottle. Here he is, almost 2,000 miles from home and everything he was running away from has followed him here. He can’t even look at Neal. It’s too much.

Neal leans forward. “What are you doing here, Moz?”

“I’m wearing flipflops and a Hawaiian shirt– obviously I’m on holiday.”

“I’ve seen you in worse.”

“Very funny.” Nothing like a shot of cynicism to tamp down your feelings. “Why are _you_ here, Neal?”

“The FBI arrested a forger called ‘the Magician’ at the airport,” Neal says and then continues with something that sounds very familiar. “He confessed that he was hired by a certain Samuel Lloyd, the owner of _Lloyd Airlines_. The FBI have been trying for years to arrest him for tax fraud on a large scale. And now he was going to counterfeit a nine-carat sapphire ring. The ring is an old family heirloom and traditionally given to the bride as a wedding present – but Lloyd is afraid of losing the ring in a divorce. So he is going to give his bride a fake one.”

Mozzie’s heard all this before – or rather, he read it.

“No!” He interrupts Neal. “The Magician was hired by Georgina soon-to-be-Lloyd, Samuels fiancée! She suspected that Samuel wants to keep the real ring from her, so she wants to swap the rings before the wedding so that she’ll get the real one. It’s a double bluff.”

“What? How do you know that?”

Mozzie puts down the bottle. “Because _I’m_ the Magician.”

“No, you’re not,” Neal shakes his head. “The Magician is in custody at the NYPD. I’ve _seen_ him confess.”

“Yeah, well, conman etiquette 101 – or as you might call it – ‘standard protocol’” Mozzie does air quotes, “dictates that if the right guy for the job isn’t around, the next best guy will do. I was there, I fit their description – they have literally no idea that I’m not the real guy. Georgina’s payment is good.”

“So Samuel and Georgina unknowingly both hired the same forger?” Neal frowns.

Mozzie shrugs. “There’s not much choice left since Neal Caffrey is off the market.”

“Ha. So you brought a nine-carat fake sapphire on your holiday?”

“No… not exactly. I still have to make it. Remember Auguste Verneuil’s flame fusion process? Well, I plan on surprising the world of gemologists with a new take on it.”

“Oh. _That’s_ why the power in the hotel goes out all the time. You’re hiding a _furnace_ on the hotel grounds?”

There’s a hint of admiration in Neal’s voice and Mozzie can’t resist the bait. (Resistance is futile when it comes to Neal Caffrey, everyone knows that.)

“I told them I need the old aircraft hangar to prepare the fireworks for the wedding – I’m the Magician, after all. Showed them a few of my card tricks, sawed the concierge in a half, and the hotel staff were eating out of the palm of my hand.”

“You bribed them,” Neal says, deadpan.

“Of _course_ I did,” Mozzie says. “But the hangar is perfect for my purposes. Had to rewire a few things of course, but…”

“Incredible,” Neal shakes his head.

There’s one thing that Mozzie still doesn’t get. “Where do _you_ come in?”

“As you probably know, Lloyd never takes off the ring. As far as the Magician told us, he’s going to start a fight with Georgina in the hope that she will insist on having an expert confirm that the stone is real. The Magician planned to pass himself off as an expert, Lloyd will take off the ring, and that’s when the swap happens.”

“And you’re that expert? You’re going to pretend that _you’re_ the Magician?”

“Yes,” Neal nods, “I’m going to use that moment to make Lloyd confess. And _you’re_ going home. The local police is planning a raid with the FBI –”

“That’s impossible! They think _I’m_ the Magician.

“Either you’ll go home, or we’re _both_ going to be the Magician, we’re pretending to be married anyways, why not go a bit further? Except I’m going to do all the interaction with the Lloyds,” Neal says, as if this all so very simple. As if they can just continue where they left off, all those weeks ago. “I’m the wizard and you’re the man behind the curtain.”

Mozzie crosses his arms. “I’m not going anywhere. They’ve got Estelle!”

“Estelle’s just a pigeon, Mozzie! Wait - why did you bring her on your holiday?”

“ _Just a pigeon?_ She’s a multi-award-winning messenger pigeon! She’s smarter than a dog! Did you know that pigeons have been trained to navigate air defense missiles?”

Neal opens his mouth to answer but Mozzie’s had enough for today.

“You know what? I’ve got a job to do,” he says, grabs his bottle and leaves the room.

***

While the furnace is heating up, Mozzie takes a stroll around the hangar. Nothing like a pair of modified sunglasses to take a closer look at the other guests of the hotel. The hangar is situated on a small hill on the west side of the hotel grounds, a perfect place for an observation.

Through the binocular lenses, Mozzie notices an alarming number of people who only pretend to be wedding guests, tourists, or hotel staff. There are only so many times that you can read the same page of your newspaper or wipe down the same corner of the pool tiles, without being suspicious. (Amateurs.) (How did he not notice them before? Is he growing careless? The thought makes him shudder.)

They are watching, waiting for their cue. So far, no sign of a certain Suit or any of the minor Suits. This might be a good sign: more time to get the job done. Or a bad one: they might already be lurking behind his back. (He doesn’t even try to resist the urge to turn around. Better safe than sorry.)

Mozzie watches and waits, too. He thinks about numbers. There’s a reason why the official crime rate always drops in the summer, why the newspapers have to blow up every minor celebrity scandal to mythic proportions: Even FBI agents and NYPD detectives like to go on vacation. Or they stay in the city, sweating their way through the infamous heat of the New York summer, staring out the window, wishing for air conditioning, idly doodling in the margins of their case files.

Whereas true crime never sleeps – and especially not when the enemy is drowsing behind their desks.

Though this doesn’t look like the enemy is sleeping. It looks as if they’re very much awake. Maybe Neal was right, maybe Mozzie should pack his bags. Throw them off his scent while he still can.

But he’s tired of running. That’s why he came here: to get his edge back.

The distinct smell of metal heating up to 3,000 degrees Fahrenheit mixed with a cologne he knows only too well makes him look back to the hangar. Neal is leaning against the open door, a half-smile playing on his lips, fedora dangling off his fingertips.

“I don’t know why you’re so angry at me, but if you’re going to make a perfect sapphire in less than twenty-four hours, you need to get started soon.”

Mozzie takes off his glasses and walks past Neal, into the hangar. “I’m going to make _two_ perfect sapphires. And I’ve only got nine hours, I’m planning on being back at the hotel bar for the happy hour.”

“Well,” Mozzie can practically hear Neal’s smirk, “looks like we’ve got a long afternoon ahead of us. I hope you’ve got two pairs of gloves.”

Neal shrugs out of his suit jacket and starts rolling up his sleeves.

Mozzie doesn’t look at him, he just can’t.

But he hands over the gloves and a pair of safety goggles.

***

The afternoon passes in a blur of heat and sweat. At first, Neal tries to make small talk. He tells Mozzie all about how they caught the real Magician, about how he told Peter that he should accompany the team, about El, who convinced him to let Neal come with them to Aruba.

Mozzie stays silent. He pretends to be very focused on the task at hand. But, well, supervising the temperature of the furnace while the synthetic sapphires are baking into their perfect shape isn’t very complicated. Neal knows that and so does Mozzie. (It’s a game. Who will last longer: Neal and his stupid stories or Mozzie and the stupid thermometer? There are no winners, only two people who miss their best friend.) (It’s excruciating – but for once, Mozzie won’t be the one who gives in.)

Finally, Neal drops the tiny pair of pliers he’s using to make a silver setting for the stones. “Fine. Why are you so mad at me, Mozzie?”

He sounds as if he thinks this is ridiculous. As if Mozzie is ridiculous for being angry, for running off to Aruba without a word, for playing along in a heist that wasn’t his.

If ridiculous is what Neal wants to see – well, then, ridiculous is what he’s going to get. Anything’s better than the truth and Mozzie has more than one string to his bow.

He whips around. “You changed your lock and you didn’t even tell me, Neal!”

Neal looks surprised. “I did no such thing.”

“Well, then _someone_ changed your lock,” he crosses his arms, determined to wait until Neal realizes what’s wrong.

It takes a long minute of silence and defiant stares, then:

“Mozzie… did you change my lock?” Neal asks, half-confused, half-annoyed.

“Yes! Of _course_ I did!” Mozzie pushes up his visor and points at Neal. “And you didn’t even notice because you weren’t home in _two weeks_. I told you that I wanted to show you something and I waited for you and you didn’t even bother to tell me that you had other plans.”

“Oh.” Neal seems genuinely upset. “Look, Mozzie, I’m sorry.”

Nothing like a pair of big blue eyes to make a man feel bad about telling a white lie.

“Here’s your key,” Mozzie mumbles and takes a shiny silver key out of his breast pocket. “It’s a deadbolt, but with a touch of Fort Knox and a pinch of Houdini. An edge-weighted, height-adjusted lock that is fine-tuned to your exact wrist movement. Only your identical twin could open it, and luckily for us, you don’t have one. All spare keys have to be customized to their owners. You’re living in New York’s fanciest halfway house, the least I can do is keep the cops and the thieves out.”

“That’s amazing.” Neal holds the key up and watches as the sun glints on the uneven surface. He hesitates. “All thieves?”

Mozzie shrugs. “You’re the one who decides who gets the spare key.” He pulls out another, identical key and offers it to Neal. “Or you should keep it somewhere safe.”

Neal nods and slips both keys into his pocket.

***

By the time they’ve finished their forging for the day, the happy hour is long over. The hotel bar is packed with wedding guests, undercover agents, and drunk Englishmen. It’s like the afterparty of a James Bond movie, but with less movie stars and more martini. Classy, but also more than slightly tipsy.

It’s also the first time that Mozzie gets a better look at their targets: Samuel is small and stocky; Georgina is a dream in a red velvet designer dress. It’s a shame that Neal and Mozzie have to pretend that they’re a couple – Georgina would be right up Neal’s alley.

But Neal only spares them a glance when Mozzie points them out to him and then goes back to looking at Mozzie as if he’s trying to find some missing puzzle pieces. (The intensity of his gaze makes Mozzie want to squirm.)

“Why did you bring Estelle?” Neal asks, as if he’s continuing a conversation they just left off.

“Because I like to be prepared. You never know when an island is going to run out of either postcards or phone booths,” Mozzie shrugs. “She’s useful and it’s good training for her, especially since I’ve been training her on a new course. They must have seen me check her in at the cargo hold. Put two and two together and what you get is a magician with a pet pigeon.”

“Where does she fly to?”

“She’s a homing pigeon. She flies home,” Mozzie says, and the words come out terse. It’s better if Neal doesn’t know where Estelle flies to. He’ll find out anyways, sooner or later.

Neal nods, clearly not satisfied with Mozzie’s answer, and takes a sip of his martini. He looks good like this, no tie, the first few inches of his shirt unbuttoned, hair slightly mussed from an afternoon spent wearing a visor and a helmet in 95 °F. (Not that Mozzie cares what Neal looks like. He’s seen him in every possible state, and he’s always just been… well, _Neal_.)

“You’re still angry at me,” Neal says and turns away from Mozzie, just slightly. He leans back against the bar, eyes trained on the dance floor in the middle of the room.

“I’m not.”

“Come on, Moz. We just need to get back into our groove.”

“Our groove? Are you even listening to yourself?” It’s been a long day and Mozzie might have had a drink too many already. He’s perched on a bar stool, and gesturing with a glass of Chardonnay towards Neal. “ _We_ haven’t been in groove for months! You’ve been getting your groove on with the Suit and I’ve been on the sideline, handing you your hat if you happened to need it.”

Neal nods but clearly isn’t listening to his rant – his eyes are fixed on someone in the crowd. Probably a woman he’s going to ask out in ten seconds. (Mozzie takes a large sip to prepare himself for the inevitable.) (Old habits die hard.)

“Speaking of getting the groove on – do you want to dance?” Neal’s voice tears him from his musings.

“ _What?_ ”

“Looks like someone is having quite a heated conversation on the dancefloor, we need to get closer,” Neal says and nods towards Samuel and Georgina. They can hear Georgina shout something about jewels, even over the music and the chatter. “This is our chance to introduce ourselves as experts and get our hands on the ring.”

He grabs Mozzie’s wrist. “If you’d do me the honor, Mr. Haversham?”

Mozzie groans.

“Dancing is not exactly my forte, Neal,” he is sounds slightly panicked but lets Neal pull him down from the bar stool. “Several high school dances traumatized me for life. To this day I feel woozy whenever I hear Eric Clapton’s _Wonderful Night_ or if I smell the unique combination of scared, hormonal teenagers in polyester suits and sweaty gym floors, I –”

“Shh… relax. This is jazz, not the 1970s charts,” Neal steers him onto the polished floorboards, a hand loosely placed on Mozzie’s hip, the other one on his shoulder. They get a few looks – though that’s a given if you dare to enter a room full of sunburned singles by Neal Caffrey’s side.

“Speaking of…” Neal continues and gently starts weaving them towards the fighting couple. “ _You_ went to high school dances?”

“Mr. Jeffries insisted on an extensive educational spectrum, he was very strict in this regard,” Mozzie says, clumsily trying to follow Neal’s lead. “But I soon found out that I preferred watching to participating, as with most things in life. After all, _dance is a poem of which each movement is a word_.”

“Anna Pawlowa?” Neal offers his guess and stops Mozzie from stepping on a woman’s toes by pulling him closer.

“Mata Hari,” Mozzie corrects him, but he’s slightly distracted by their sudden proximity. It’s not a bad feeling, knowing that there are only a few inches of warm air between their bodies. “I bet _you_ always danced with the prettiest girls, Mr. Prom King.”

“I – I’ve actually never been to any school dances,” Neal hesitates, and they miss a step, almost falling over their own feet. Mozzie tightens his grip and Neal shoots him one of his famous mischievous smiles. “Not directly, anyways. I mean, a school dance is pretty much the only time frame during which the teacher’s offices are unlocked but not supervised. I spent my senior prom tampering with the results of our finals.”

“Ah, a classic. I’m impressed!” Mozzie grins back. “I have to admit I may also have snuck out of the gym – several of the teachers used my expertise for their tax evasion schemes during the school dances. The Dentist of Detroit had a very busy schedule.”

Neal laughs and starts to answer but Georgina’s handbag hits him in the back of his head as she yells: “I won’t marry you before an expert has confirmed the authenticity of the ring!” (It all looks and sounds very staged, but that doesn’t matter because at least Neal is an excellent actor.)

“Ouch!” Neal stumbles and lets go of Mozzie. He turns around to face Georgina, armed with nothing but a dazzling smile and a business card, both of them fake.

Everything is going according to plan. (According to Mozzie’s plan that is, not the FBI’s plan, and certainly not the soon-to-be-married Lloyds’ plan.)

The only thing he didn’t plan for was the fact that he’d be sharing a room with Neal. There’s only one bed and by the time Neal returns from charming the Lloyds, Mozzie has left the bar for their room, changed into his silk pajamas, and claimed the side of the bed that is closer to the window. (Less chances of being murdered by a person coming through the door; improved oxygenation; a functioning socket in the bedside table.)

He pretends to be engrossed in his book (Robert Musil, _The Man Without Qualities_ , a very inspiring read) and only nods as Neal enters the room.

It’s not as if they’ve never slept in the same room – Mozzie is a frequent guest on Neal’s couch (at least when no other overnight guests are present). He knows the sound of Neal’s deep breaths, how often he wakes up in the middle of the night, how the first thing he does every morning is touch his ankle, as if the tracking anklet might have vanished overnight, like a bad dream. He’s heard Neal’s morning voice, seen his bed hair, and the way he scrunches his nose when the sunlight hits his face after a night with too many drinks.

In return, Neal knows that Mozzie has nightmares and likes to sit on the balcony, meditating in the moonlight until he feels ready to go back to sleep. Without commenting on it, he bought a humidifier because he knows about Mozzie’s asthma and his many allergies. There are always fresh sheets in the drawer under the couch, next to the pair of pajamas and change of clothes Mozzie likes to keep at Neal’s place.

They’ve spent so much time next to each other.

Sleeping in the same bed can’t be much different, can it?

***

As it turns out, sleeping in the same bed makes a world of difference. Especially if you’re too nervous to actually fall asleep and spend the night agonizing over a) the off chance that you’ll wake up pressed against Neal in a manner that suggests that you two really are married; b) the worrying sound that comes from the hotel bathroom and that hopefully is neither a horde of rats nor a burst water pipe in the making; c) life in general but especially the last, let’s say, three years.

It's this sleepless night that Mozzie spends meticulously taking apart a complicated knot of feelings. (Feelings for Neal, that is.) A knot that is easy enough to ignore most days but growing, always growing, until it gets hard to breathe whenever Neal isn’t around to distract him. The knot is lodged somewhere between his solar plexus and his throat. (It’s a matter of heart, June would say. But Mozzie isn’t June, he’s a scientist, and on a purely rational basis, there’s no reason why he should feel this way. But he’s also a sentimentalist and that… well, that’s what makes this all so complicated.)

It’s this sleepless night that Mozzie spends in bed beside a deeply snoring Neal (oh, if this isn’t the dream of three quarters of NYC’s criminal elite), careful to leave at least ten inches of untouched sheets between them.

It’s this sleepless night that Mozzie blames for everything that goes wrong that day.

At first, the day doesn’t even seem that bad. Sure, Mozzie is slightly tired, but he’s used to pulling the occasional all-nighter (or two-or-three-nighter, to be honest). Being tired is nothing that can’t be solved with a strong cup of tea and one of the infamous _Santa Cruz Deluxe Resort & Spa_ vegan muffins. When the going gets tough, there’s always the sight of Neal Caffrey, coming into the breakfast room, as bright and shiny as the sun that is rising above the Caribbean outside.

Neal pulls out the chair opposite Mozzie and raises an eyebrow as he sees the place card that says _Mr. and Mr. Haversham_ on it. “Good morning, darling,” he says, grinning. (As if Mozzie will find it funny. Which he doesn’t. God, when have things between them become so complicated?)

Mozzie decides to ignore the ‘darling’, as well as his cup of tea, and instead pours himself a glass of champagne. (The service at the SCDR&S really is excellent.)

“Good morning,” he raises is glass towards Neal in a half-hearted toast. “ _Sapias, vina liques et spatio brevi spem longam reseces. dum loquimur, fugerit invida aetas: carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero._ ”

“Latin, alcohol and early mornings aren’t my favorite combination,” Neal grabs a muffin, takes a generous bite, and pulls a face at the taste. “Oh god, and this muffin isn’t any improvement.” Gingerly, he places it at the very edge of his plate and pours himself a cup of espresso instead.

“ _Be wise, decant the wine, and since our space is brief, cut back your far-reaching hope_ ,” Mozzie recites and simultaneously discards all plans of trying the muffins. (They’ll find their purpose eventually; he’ll make sure of that.) “ _Even while we talk, envious time has fled away: seize the day, put little trust in what is to come_.”

“ _Seize the day_?” Neal snorts. “Are you quoting motivational postcards? The last time you ran out of famous quotes, things went very bad very fast.”

“No, that’s just good old Horace – eternally damned to be misquoted on teenage girls’ locker doors,” Mozzie shrugs and nods towards the door. “Speaking of motivation, your 9 a.m. appointment has entered the room, Mr. Magician 2.0.”

Neal turns around, and indeed, there are Samuel and Georgina, heading towards them, painfully faked smiles plastered onto their faces.

“Isn’t it bad luck to see your bride before the wedding?” Neal jokes.

“Oh, definitely,” Mozzie nods enthusiastically, “but marrying someone who doesn’t trust you with their old family heirloom is even worse luck. At least they’ve both got their priorities sorted. Speaking of – I should go. See you later!”

Before the Lloyds can reach their table, he is gone. Breakfast will have to wait until another day.

***

After that, events turn into a hurried blur of things going wrong.

Mozzie spends the morning in the hangar, making a third sapphire that Neal doesn’t know about, yet. When he hears the approaching footsteps of FBI agents already scouring the terrain for suspicious activity, he has to improvise a diversionary maneuver which involves his snorkel and another pair of sunglasses, and which costs him several twenty dollar bills. ( _Necessity is the mother of invention_. Plato.) (Maybe Neal was right – if today is the kind of day that requires worn out ancient philosophy quotes, then maybe that’s a sign to go home.)

Neal returns from his expert meeting with the Lloyds and reveals that the ring has an inscription they didn’t know about. They miss lunch because they have to make the stencils for the engraving machine from scratch: The Lloyd family clan has its own, patented font. (Which is… actually quite a smart idea, considering that they’re so obsessed with people trying to exchange their heirloom for a fake version. Mozzie takes a mental note to patent the font of his monogram. You never know.)

Neal also reveals that Samuel Lloyd has spontaneously decided that there will be no ringbearer at the wedding: The next time that he will take off the ring is right after they’ve said their vows, when he’ll put nine carat worth of blue stones on Georgina’s ring finger. Which screws Mozzie’s original plan and throws them into a mad rush to come up with an alternative. (The alternative is not ideal, and involves a lot more flammable substances than originally budgeted, but, well, the end justifies the means, right?) (There: the third platitude of the day. Not a good omen.)

The new plan also requires that Mozzie tells Neal about the third sapphire and about what’s going to happen with it.

“A _triple_ bluff?” Neal exclaims. He sounds surprised, but not very. “That’s a lot of effort for a spontaneous heist, even for you, Moz.”

Mozzie starts packing up his equipment. “The payment is good, but it _could_ be better.”

“So, let me summarize…” Neal says, running a hand through his hair. “You’re going to swap the real ring for a fake one during the wedding ceremony. Then you’re going to meet up separately with each of the Lloyds and hand each of them another fake ring, telling them that that’s the real one that you stole as per order given. Then you leave the island with the _actual_ real ring, in the hope that they’re not going to notice that they’ve been duped. Correct?”

“That’s what you get when you accidentally hire a pro instead of a Magician,” Mozzie shrugs, almost helplessly. “Besides, even if they _do_ notice – which is highly unlikely, given that our forgery is perfect – neither of them will call the police because then they’d have to admit that they hired a criminal et cetera et cetera. Actually, the fact that they’ll be arrested by your suited oppressors will minimize the chance of them questioning anything that happened. It’s a near flawless crime!”

“Okay… okay, I get it,” Neal gives in. “One more thing: You haven’t yet told me _how_ you’re going to do the swap.”

“Oh, that’s easy,” Mozzie says, a sly grin appearing on his face, “thanks to an overdose of vegan muffins, Father Maduro, the resident priest of the hotel, is indisposed. Which makes me the only ordained person in a ten-mile radius. What a happy coincidence!”

***

  
Three hours later, as the sun begins to set over the blue sea, Mozzie walks down the aisle towards the gazebo, wearing his best shirt. Fresh white and pink rose petals are scattered on the carpet beneath his feet and the string quartet is softly playing the wedding march. Mozzie is in good spirits and hums along.

Neal is waiting for him in front of the steps leading up to the gazebo, looking more handsome than ever in his deep blue suit, a white rose in his buttonhole. It’s… quite a sight, to be honest.

He frowns as he sees that Mozzie has to blink back a few tears. “Are you _crying_?”

“I had to improvise with the chemicals from the gardener’s shed and with what I found in the old hangar,” Mozzie sniffles and drops the box filled with fireworks he’s been carrying at Neal’s feet. “The result is rather _potent_ and triggered one of my allergies as it seems –”

He shoots the flowering vines that completely cover the roof of the gazebo and most of the area a withering look. “– or it might be the wisteria.”

Behind them, the quartet stops playing with a dissonant screech. Apparently, one of the violin’s snapped a string, and a shouting match ensues. Another happy coincidence that provides a welcome distraction from what Neal and Mozzie are about to do.

“Only half an hour until the ceremony, we’d better get going before the guests start appearing,” Mozzie bends down and starts stacking several, very obviously homemade firecrackers on the steps. “You got the ring?”

Neal nods and pulls a small black box just far enough out of his jacket that Mozzie can see it. He puts it back and starts knotting together fuse cords, leaning closer to Mozzie. “I see you brought some… friends,” he murmurs.

Mozzie’s head snaps around. The two gorillas who hired him on the plane are looming under a floral arch. Inconceivable that he hasn’t noticed them on his way here. (To be fair, the fact that his eyes were reenacting the Great Mississippi Flood of 1927 might have impaired his sense of sight.)

“Ugh,” Mozzie groans but then he spots a small wooden cage in the hands of one of them and immediately perks up. “Hey! They brought Estelle!”

“Yes, I convinced Georgina that they should release a dove on their wedding day, I thought this might be the chance to set Estelle free,” Neal carefully places a few of the firecrackers in the woodwork of the gazebo, concealing them with a branch of wisteria leaves. “Conveniently, the Magician already brought a trained pigeon with him, so…”

He trails off as his phone beeps.

“Oh no – listen, Moz, you have to go.” His voice is urgent and filled with worry. “They’re starting the raid earlier than planned. As soon as the ceremony is has started, they’re going to arrest everyone! You have to go!”

“I _can’t_!” Mozzie panics, gesturing with a big firecracker, “They’ve got Estelle!”

Neal takes the firecracker from him and pushes him toward the path that leads to the swimming pools and the tennis court. “Just go! I’ll do the swap and take care of Estelle – just go!”

“You don’t know how to wire the fireworks! You’re going to set yourself on fire! You’re going to die!” He knows he sounds like he’s possessed, but something tells him that if he leaves Neal now, everything will go to pieces.

“Nobody is going to die!” Neal shakes his head, “But you’re going to end up in prison if they catch you. Just go, _now_.”

“I can’t.” Mozzie’s legs refuse to move. “I won’t leave you alone. Every time I leave and the FBI turns up, you do something incredibly stupid and then we spend the rest of the year cleaning up the mess you made.”

“Please, _Mozzie_ ,” Neal almost begs, “I can handle this. I appreciate your desire to play martyr, but there’s no need for that. I’d rather not see you through a plexiglass wall for the rest of our lives.”

Mozzie crosses his arms. Maybe the sleepless night was good for something after all. Maybe it was high time that he faced his feelings.

Neal sighs, clearly exasperated because Mozzie isn’t cooperating. He grabs a fistful of his shirt and drags him behind the gazebo. Caught off-guard, Mozzie follows. (As if there is any scenario where he wouldn’t follow Neal.)

“Here,” Neal lets go of him, reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out something silver and shiny. “I’ll see you at home, Moz.”

He presses it into Mozzie’s palm and closes his fingers over it. The metal is warm against Mozzie’s skin. It’s shaped after his own making; he’d recognize it anywhere. Especially because he spent nearly two weeks staring at it and getting drunk.

It’s in this exact moment – the lump in his throat, the metal of the spare key digging into his clenched fist, Neal looking at him as if there’s no one else in the entire world who’s more important – that something inside him snaps.

Mozzie opens his mouth to say something, _anything_ , but instead –

– he leans forward and kisses Neal.

Neal makes a soft, surprised noise that gets lost between them. And then, a fraction of a second later –

– he kisses Mozzie back.

His mouth is warm and almost familiar – as if Mozzie has memorized the shape of his lips, the prickle of his five o’clock shadow, the way his real smile starts in the corners of his mouth – just by looking at him over all those years.

All those years Neal was the only person he ever really wanted to kiss. Because Neal is his best friend. Because –

His brain tries to process what’s happening, fails spectacularly, and simultaneously registers the unmistakable sound of agents speaking into a crackling radio on the other side of the gazebo.

Reality crashes over him in a terrifying wave as Neal pulls back.

And just like this, their moment is over.

Neal takes him by the shoulders, turns him around and pushes him down the path before Mozzie can protest. “ _Go_! Good luck!”

Mozzie can’t think, can’t speak, can’t leave. Not now, _not like this_.

The sound of footsteps, urgent whispers, and orders given over radio _to secure the area and arrest everyone as soon as the ceremony has begun_ jerks Mozzie out of his stupor and his flight-or-fight instinct kicks in. The flight reflex wins and although his head is still spinning from what just happened, he starts jogging down the lawn.

When he has almost reached the swimming pools, he turns around and looks back. Neal is still standing behind the gazebo, the sun setting his hair on fire. Something clenches in Mozzie’s chest. This – whatever this just was – might have ruined everything between them. He doubles over. He feels ready to throw up and die.

Neal cups his hands around his mouth and shouts: “Run, Mozzie!”

“I can’t!” Mozzie yells back; his brain taking over because his heart just messed up everything. “I’m wearing flipflops!”

He considers dunking his head into the pool to clear it. (If his stomach wouldn’t feel as if he just swallowed a swarm of _apis mellifera_ , he’d think that he’d made up what just happened.) (What the hell was that? Did he really – ?)

“Kick them off!” He can hear the laughter in Neal’s voice, even all the way from here, and suddenly Mozzie knows they’re good. They’re still friends. And that’s what matters, after all. Whatever just happened – he will have to wait until later to figure it out.

“And risk catching several diseases off a dirty swimming pool edge?” Mozzie shouts over his shoulder, startling a few of the hotel guests. “Thanks, but I’d rather die!”

He starts running, his footsteps slapping against the hot concrete.

***

Germs and third-degree sunburn aren’t the only threats near a swimming pool. Electrical defects, slippery sidewalks, ladders, diving boards, slides, and other hazards can easily cause fatal or non-fatal injuries. Not to mention drowning, bullying of people that don’t fit traditional beauty standards, theft of one’s monthly ticket, and being dunked.

It's fair to say that Mozzie isn’t (and never has been) a fan of swimming pools, especially public ones.

Running headfirst into an FBI agent by the pool side doesn’t let the swimming pool rise in Mozzie’s esteem.

It’s just his luck that it happens to be special agent Clinton Jones who arrests him.

“I should have known that you’d be around,” he says, rolling his eyes. “I bet you’ve been up to no good.”

“I have the right to remain silent,” Mozzie pants, struggling against Quantico’s steel grip, “And I will make use of it!”

“The day I hear you shut up has yet to come,” Jones drags him away from the pool. “Speaking of the end times, what is this monstrosity you’re wearing?”

They climb into a van (really? These guys can’t live without their smelly, painfully obvious observation vehicles? Even on vacation?), and Mozzie plonks himself down on a chair. He gestures towards his shirt. “It gives me a certain _je-ne-sais-quoi_.”

Skeptically, Jones eyes the colorful array of flamingoes and pineapples on Mozzie’s chest. “Well, it gives _me_ a headache.”

“Even better.” Mozzie leans back in his chair. There’s a satisfied smile on his lips, but his heart is racing. Everything is going wrong today.

Quantico checks his phone and pulls out a pair of handcuffs. “The boss says you’ll stay here until we’ve finished the job. Apparently, Neal just notified Peter that you’re here to help him arrest the Lloyds.”

Mozzie disdainfully harrumphs and lets Jones handcuff him to the table. He crosses his arms as well as he can, seemingly unfazed by the fact that he just got arrested.

Keeping up appearances is the first step to a successful getaway.

Unfortunately, Jones shows no sign of leaving the van, and something about the way his gun safety is off tells Mozzie that testing out the _jiu-jitsu_ skills he acquired through binge-watching Japanese art house movies wouldn’t be a very smart move right now.

 _Apropos_ smart moves: The second step to a successful escape is letting your turnkey think they’re more intelligent than you.

Once you’ve established yourself as a short, eccentric but unthreatening oddball, people tend to underestimate you. They’ll laugh at you when you’re telling the truth and they’ll wink knowingly when you’re lying. You turn into the Cheshire Cat: you’re the most obvious threat in the room and yet you’re invisible except for your crazy grin. It’s not the easiest life, especially since most of what Mozzie does and says isn’t an act – he really is a paranoid freak, but at least he’s honest about it. Nothing to be ashamed of. (And it comes in handy, from time to time, not to turn people’s heads the way Neal does.)

Mozzie decides to lighten up the mood in the van with a topic he’s very proficient in: conspiracy theories, or, as he likes to call them ‘facts until proven otherwise.’

“As you seem to spend an above-average amount of time in vehicles like this one…” Mozzie begins, “Can I interest you in an eyewitness account of the Manhattan Bermuda car triangle?”

Quantico lowers the phone he’s been typing into for the last two minutes. “The Bermuda car triangle doesn’t exist.” He throws Mozzie a stern look. “And I know what you’re trying to do, you’re trying to distract me. I know your sort. The next thing you’ll tell me is that the government is trying to infiltrate people’s minds via trash tv.”

“That’s just silly!” Mozzie scoffs. “Trash tv is literally the _only_ kind of television program that _isn’t_ a sick government scheme to manipulate our thoughts! But let me tell you about the mole people who live under the…”

Jones huffs an unconvinced laugh but puts his phone away as Mozzie begins to enlighten him.

Mozzie can tell that this going to be a long wait. But anything is better than thinking about why he kissed Neal, and what that means for them. So, mole people it is.

***

An hour and a half later, the one and only Suit, Neal in tow, interrupts Mozzie’s fascinating report about New York’s most beloved urban legends.

Quantico immediately sits up straighter, putting on his best ‘I didn’t believe a single word this weirdo told me’ face.

(Hypocrite.)

Mozzie stops talking and, when he sees the look on Burke’s face, quietly clicks the handcuffs around his wrists closed again. (Of course he picked them. He’s not good at sitting still and Jones wouldn’t let him touch any of the tempting buttons in the van.)

“Jones. Take them to their room and lock them in,” Burke says, and without so much as looking at Mozzie, he points an accusatory finger at him. “One peep out of you and I won’t guarantee for anything.”

The instant they are out of earshot, Mozzie can’t hold himself back any longer.

“You _told_ the FBI that I’m here?” he blurts out. “Wow. _Et tu,_ Neal?”

“I told them that we’re working together to produce a convincing forgery,” Neal defends himself, throws a cautious look at Jones who’s walking behind them, and instantly lowers his voice. “They only know that I called you in New York and that you came to help me out. I was trying to _protect_ you.”

“ _Great_! Thanks!” Mozzie isn’t in the mood for whispering. “Now that I’ve been of such great assistance to the FBI, I might as well ask the Suit to let me go. He owes me anyways from the time I worked in the Cage.”

“You worked in the Cage?” Neal asks, clearly dumbfounded. “Why?”

Jones suddenly looks very interested in their conversation. He’s probably recording them on one of those stupid bugged pens the FBI loves.

Mozzie couldn’t care less. There are ways to destroy acoustic evidence that Jones can’t even imagine. “Remember: Einstein worked at …”

“…at a patent office,” Neal completes his sentence, “yes, Mozzie, but…”

“There was nothing illegal about. They were looking for someone who knew how to drive a forklift – and you know what I can do with a forklift. I could juggle a pallet of raw eggs with a forklift without –”

“So that was you in 2007, the infamous forklift getaway after…” Quantico looks as if he’s suspecting something.

“I have _no idea_ what you’re talking about,” Mozzie stops him with the wave of a hand. “Anyways, as Einstein has proven: a bit of manual work always helps to keep the brain in shape. And you wouldn’t believe the kinds of things you can find there, it’s like heaven if heaven were a maze of thirty feet high shelves filled with –”

“Wait,” Jones interrupts him, scowling, “a furnace was reported stolen from the Cage, the day before yesterday. Don’t tell me that was you.”

“They were going to auction off the furnace _anyways_ , it was an _act of charity_ to relieve the FBI of it before they had to cart 20 tonnes of steel to the auction,” Mozzie justifies himself. “And now that they’ve found it, they can just have it back, no harm done.”

He darts an angry glance at Neal. “And as it turns out, the whole job was sponsored by the FBI anyways, so…” He trails off.

They’ve reached the reception desk and Jones stops to tell the concierge that they’re criminals and are under no circumstances allowed to leave their room. The concierge doesn’t bat an eye. The _Santa Cruz Deluxe Resort & Spa_ really is an excellent retreat.

Meanwhile, the only thing stopping Mozzie from making a quick getaway is Neal’s grip on his shirt.

“ _Don’t_ ,” Neal hisses, and his grip tightens. “It’s too late now. We’ll figure something out, later. What was your original escape plan?”

“Oh, I was going to mix with the German tourists and revive my identity as Herr Eckehart Thalkötter, tax accountant,” Mozzie shrugs. “ _Wie du weißt, ist mein Deutsch ganz ausgezeichnet._ The only things I’d need for a convincing performance are a German passport and a pair of socks and sandals.”

Before Neal can answer, Jones is back, a baffled expression on his face.

“Should I offer my best wishes?” Jones asks as herds them into the elevator. “The guy from the reception desk says that you checked in as a married couple? Not that I wouldn’t support you, but this does come as a bit of a surprise.”

“Oh, no,” Mozzie corrects him, trying to change the subject, “you should only extend best wishes to a bride. To a groom, you’d –”

“We’re not married,” Neal says. “It just seemed sensible to check in under the same name, as we were both impersonating the Magician, and the hotel staff assumed wrongly that we’re married.”

They leave the elevator and walk to their room.

“They really _believed_ that?” Jones laughs, clearly relieved. “I mean, no offense, but you, Neal, very clearly play in a different league – no, not a different league, a whole different game – and just the thought of you two married, it’s really – ”

Neal shakes his head and laughs his most careless laugh as he interrupts Jones. “Mozzie is literally the only person I’d ever marry.”

His words make Mozzie feel sick to his stomach.

Deep down, he knows that this is just the kind of thing Neal says. A joke. Not even the mean kind – just something you say to your best friend because you know he won’t hold it against you. Mozzie has heard it all before.

“ _I’d trust him with my life.”_

_“You’re a very talented man.”_

_“I could kiss you.”_

_“We_ are _a team, Moz.”_

And now this.

Kissing Neal was the most stupidly impulsive thing he’s ever done. And of course, Neal thought that was a joke, too. What else could it have been, really?

Abruptly, Mozzie takes out his key card, unlocks the door and thrusts the card at Jones.

Time to see what the minibar has to offer. The door snaps shut behind him, but he can hear Jones and Neal talk outside. They are laughing.

By the time Neal walks into the room, Mozzie has already discovered that the selection of tiny bottles of whiskey and vodka is neither up to his usual standards, nor nearly enough to get drunk.

***

Neal takes one look at him – sitting in the room’s only armchair, shoulders hunched – and sits down on the edge of the bed, right in front of him. Close enough to touch.

“You’re mad that they arrested you,” he states.

Mozzie takes a very large sip out of a very small bottle. “Yes.”

“Well, maybe knowing that your fireworks did a great job will cheer you up.” Neal raises an eyebrow.

“Great.” Mozzie stares blankly at the air above Neal’s left shoulder.

“Anyway,” Neal gets up, shrugs out of his suit jacket, and starts to loosen his tie in front of the mirror, “… about that kiss…”

Wordlessly, Mozzie gets up and walks to the door. He doesn’t care if a SWAT team is waiting outside or if he has to face the Suit in order to get out of here. He can’t take it any longer.

Before he can reach for the door handle, he feels Neal’s hand on his shoulder. “Mozzie. Wait. Please.”

Mozzie doesn’t open the door. He also doesn’t turn around.

He’s just rooted there, unable to go forward, unwilling to look at Neal.

“God, Mozzie, would you please tell me what’s going on?” Neal sounds confused, and worried. “You vanish from New York, then I find you in _Aruba_ of all places, where you’ve somehow managed to become involved in the case I’m trying to solve, then one minute you’re mad at me, then you kiss me, and now you won’t even talk to me about it?”

Mozzie says nothing.

“ _Fine_ ,” Neal snaps at him and lets go of his shoulder. “Then we won’t talk about it. We don’t have to talk about _anything_. We can just sit here in silence. Because that always works out so well for us. I already told Jones what happened at the wedding, so it’s not as if I have any urgent desires to share my experiences.”

“Maybe you should get married to Jones, if you like him so much.” Mozzie’s voice is very quiet. “You’re Neal Caffrey, I’m sure you can marry anyone.”

Neal doesn’t answer.

Mozzie can feel his breath on his neck, can smell his cologne and taste the slightly sulphuric scent of black powder in the air.

A long minute goes past.

Then, Neal clears his throat. (It’s a sound Mozzie knows only too well. It means that he has come to a decision. There’s no going back if Neal Caffrey clears his throat like that.)

“Mozzie – I meant what I said. You’re the only person I’d ever marry.”

It’s so ridiculous to hear him say it like this. Like he means it. If Mozzie weren’t so angry, he’d laugh. “Well, wouldn’t that be _convenient_ …”

“What do you mean?” He sounds genuinely concerned. Neal is a great actor; he’ll give him that.

But Mozzie isn’t gonna fall for it, not again.

“I mean that you only ever need me when it’s convenient for you.” He whips around. “Need someone to plan a heist? Call Mozzie. Need someone to read through the entire phone directory of New York City to find the right number? Call Mozzie. Need someone to distract the suits while you steal something right from under their noses? Call Mozzie. Need someone to hack the White House? Call – oh, wait, how _convenient_ , Mozzie is already right there, in your apartment, waiting for you.”

“And the worst thing is,” Mozzie continues as Neal opens his mouth to answer, “– no, Neal, let me finish – I don’t _mind_ doing all of this. As long as I’m doing it for _you_ , not for the goddamn FBI.”

“That’s not true…” Neal’s mouth is a thin line.

They’re standing so close.

“Yes, it is.” Mozzie jabs a finger at Neal’s chest. “You only ever call me if you need me, not if you want to have fun.”

“We’re having plenty of fun together,” Neal takes a step back and turns around.

Mozzie watches as he walks over to the window. “No, we’re not. Not anymore.”

He sounds pathetic, and clingy, and he knows it.

“Mozzie, if this is about the Lloyds and the heist we planned… Helping you out was an exception. I _knew_ that there’d be a raid. That we’d never make it.” Neal is standing with his back to him. “I’m not going back to jail, just because you want to steal something we don’t need. This is not the kind of fun I can risk right now. I have to keep Peter off my back if I ever want to get my freedom.”

“I’m not talking about _crime_.” Now it’s Mozzie’s turn to cross the room. He’s frustrated and starts waving his arms about as he tries to explain the obvious. “I’m talking about mornings with champagne and Michelangelo on an island without an extradition treaty, I’m talking about all-you-can-eat sushi for lunch on 72nd street, I’m talking about evenings spent at home, playing Monopoly with June. We haven’t done _any_ of that in months.”

Neal crosses his arms. “You’re jealous that I’ve spent some evenings with the Burke’s.”

“If that’s what you want to call it…” Mozzie scoffs.

“It’s more complicated than you think, Peter and El have been… very kind to me.”

“God, _Neal_. I _know_ what’s going on with the three of you. I might be more myopic than a mole, but I’m not blind. And I don’t care, do whatever makes you happy, just – just don’t say anything like that ever to me again.”

“Say what?” Neal turns his head to look at him.

“That I’m the only person you’d marry,” Mozzie takes off his glasses and polishes them on his shirt. “That’s not true and you know it.”

Neal frowns. “Of course it is.”

“No, of course it’s not. Have you _looked_ at me? Not exactly marriage material.”

Neal takes a deep breath. There’s a muscle twitching in his jaw.

“Listen, Mozzie, I don’t know why you keep saying stuff like that about yourself, but I _like_ looking at you.” He takes a step closer. “Because whenever I look at you, I see my best friend, the only person I’d trust with my life, the only person who’s seen me at my worst _and_ at my best, the only person who stuck with me for _four_ years even though I was wearing a tracking anklet, even though I was working for the FBI. What you did for me was not just _convenient_ – what you did, Mozzie, was the bravest thing _anyone_ has ever done for me.”

Mozzie swallows and decides to stare at his feet, for safety purposes. “You do have a way with words, I’ll give you that. No wonder all those people have been swooning in your wake.”

“As for me and Peter and El,” Neal continues, an extra bit of unconvincing nonchalance mixed into his words, “whatever that was – it’s over. It’s been over for months.”

Mozzie puts his glasses back on and looks at him. Properly. For the first time since Neal came here. (Because that’s what best friends do. They don’t look away, even when things get tough.)

There’s a strand of hair, slightly singed. A haunted shimmer in his blue, blue eyes. A tired line around his mouth.

He doesn’t look as if he’s stepped right off the front page of GQ. Which means that by Neal’s standards, he looks nearly as terrible as Mozzie feels right now.

He decides to awkwardly pat Neal’s arm. (God, he’s so bad at this.)

“There are still too many secrets, too many things Peter can never know about. It was going to end, sooner or later. We’re still friends, but the Burke’s… they’ve got their own life to get back to.” Neal’s eyes shift to a distant, faraway look. “I’m living on borrowed time. If Peter finds out what I did… And my dad is gone. And the last two weeks… I’ve got nothing, really.”

Mozzie realizes that he’s still patting Neal’s arm. He might as well keep his hand there, on Neal’s shoulder. Neal doesn’t seem to mind, and this feels… _right_. As if they’re meant to be like this. Close enough to catch each other. To hold each other.

What isn’t right is this: Neal just standing there, as if he alone is carrying the weight of the last four years on his shoulders. It’s the worst sight in the world. It’s just _not right_ , especially since Mozzie is right there, ready to share the burden. (Another thing that best friends are for.)

“I mean…” Mozzie can tell he sounds more than just slightly flustered. “You’ve got _me_. Not that that’s a lot. But I’ve got bees, and a rather extensive knowledge about a lot of useless topics. And I _am_ New York’s leading criminal mastermind, at least if you trust the number of unsolved cases that should name me as prime suspect but don’t. And I suppose I could stop trying to make you commit crimes with me, at least until –”

“Moz.”

“– at least until you’re officially set free.” He takes his hand off Neal’s shoulder, gesturing excitedly. “Or I could hack into your anklet and then we’ll run away together. They’ll never find us. I know a place –”

“ _Moz_.”

Mozzie stops. His shoulders slump down in defeat. “Neal?”

“Yes?” There’s a tiny hint of a smile on Neal’s face. It’s the best thing Mozzie has seen all day.

“I’m sorry for being mad at you.” Mozzie can’t help laughing awkwardly. “And I hate arguing with you.”

And then, without warning, Neal leans forward, just a little bit. There’s not much space left between them, and something wells up in Mozzie’s stomach, his chest, his throat. Something fast, and unstoppable.

“Hey, wait, what’re you doing?” He stops him, a hand on Neal’s chest. He can feel Neal’s heartbeat, pulsing under his splayed-out fingers.

“I’m trying to kiss you.” Neal gives him an exasperated look.

“ _What_? Why?”

“Because I want to?”

It comes out as a question, and somehow that makes it just more real. Neal wants to…

The words slowly sink in. 

“Oh.” Mozzie scratches his neck. His gaze falls to Neal’s mouth. His throat. The collarbone peeking out from under his shirt.

He wants to kiss Neal again. He really, _really_ does. But there’s something he has to say, something he has to make sure of before… before everything is ruined.

“You know that… if we do that, if we kiss…” he begins and as soon as he has started, the truth, the knot in his chest, the thing he was worried about all the time – it all comes loose, spilling out before he can stop it. “… there’s no going back. I’m not good at _casual_. I’m neurotic and jealous and annoying. And you’re the only person who’s ever put up with me for longer than a day without threatening to kill me. Who am kidding? Everyone else wishes they were somewhere else after as much as _one_ _hour_ with me. And to be honest, I can’t blame them because you’re the only person _I_ ever really wanted to spend more than an hour with. And if kissing you, _being_ with you in this new way will ruin our friendship… or if you’re using me as a sort of detour until you meet the next gorgeous person… then I think I’d rather not kiss you. Then I’d rather stay your best friend and sit by as you fall, and crash, and burn for someone else again. I can do that. I’ve done it for years.”

Mozzie falls silent. His heart is racing, and there’s a ringing in his ears.

Neal shakes his head as if everything Mozzie just admitted is utterly, deeply ridiculous. “God, Mozzie, we’ve been pretending that we’re married and literally nothing changed for us. We did _exactly_ the same things we’ve been doing for years except that we shared a bed and I got to call you darling at breakfast. At this point, I think _nothing_ could change what we have.”

Neal sounds nervous, suddenly. Neal Caffrey, nervous? Who’d have thought? Mozzie feels as if his whole world is turned upside down. (This must be what Alice was talking about when she was falling down the rabbit hole. God, why is he thinking about Lewis Carroll now?) (We’re all mad here, and it’s beginning to show.)

Neal’s next words, however, firmly ground Mozzie in the present again.

“I should have said this sooner, and this might sound cheesy, just to warn you,” Neal says, and his voice is slightly hoarse, “but I appreciate you so much. I love you. In every, _every_ single sense of the word. As my best friend. As my genius partner – in crime and otherwise.”

It takes a moment for the words to sink in.

Neal gently cups Mozzie’s face, and this time, Mozzie doesn’t flinch. “And I’m sorry that it took me so long to say it. I thought – I thought it was obvious.”

Mozzie shrugs his signature shrug and smiles his half-smile. It’s all he can manage, right now.

“Wow, I thought I’d never see the day – you’re at a loss for words,” Neal laughs, and he sounds so, so relieved.

And Mozzie can’t stop looking at him. It might just be the last rays of the Aruba sun falling through the window, or the truly scandalous amount of serotonin flooding his body – but everything about Neal is glowing.

“That really was cheesy,” Mozzie points out, because he’s petty. Or maybe just to prove him wrong. Just to see what happens next. Just to stall. To stay in this moment, forever: Neal’s thumb tracing along Mozzie’s cheekbones; the expensive fabric of Neal’s shirt crumpling where Mozzie is holding on to him, tightly.

“I told you it’d be cheesy,” Neal jokes, and Mozzie can feel his laughter against his skin, just a fraction of an inch away. “If I’d known that this is what it takes for you to shut up, I’d have told you I love you sooner.”

Mozzie grins back. He tilts his head, and Neal’s lips are right there. 

(If the concept of fate weren’t so obviously a hoax meant to lull one’s sense of reality, he’d think that this moment was meant to be. Maybe they just both were too stupid to realize that this is the only way. Talking it all out. Admitting the truth even though they’re both so good at lying. Being so close that nothing, not even a very thin sheet from an FBI file, would fit between them.)

This is the last coherent thought Mozzie can form. The rest is, as the saying goes, history: Neal’s smile against his mouth; his fingers running through Neal’s hair. The single moan escaping his lips as Neal begins kissing his throat; the exhilarating feeling of Neal’s skin under his fingertips. Neal’s body, loosely sprawled on the sheets, a mess of shadows in the golden light, pulling Mozzie close, closer. Neal leaning above him, undoing the buttons of Mozzie’s ridiculous shirt, one by one. Laughing because everything is so new and so familiar. The way they can guess where to touch each other versus the thrilling surprise of hands on skin, open mouthed kisses, trailing down, down, down.

Discovering each other, trusting each other, getting to see each other like this: at their most undone, at their most scared, at their most brave.

It's what they’ve always done. Except it’s not.

***

###  **Epilogue**

Two weeks, four interrogations with the Suit, and about half a cup of Oolong later, Mozzie is leaning against the railing of Neal’s balcony. The prettiest sunrise in the world is still a few minutes away; right now, it’s no more than a sliver of pink against the skyline. This should be a peaceful moment, but something is bothering him.

Mozzie’s nights are still bad; you can’t shake forty years’ worth of deeply ingrained paranoia in a matter of weeks. (Besides, fear is good. It keeps you alive.) (And awake. So very, very awake.) The fact that he still doesn’t know what happened to the real sapphire doesn’t help. Just the thought of it, out there, somewhere, waiting for him… it’s so tempting. Neal’s been swearing up and down that Samuel Lloyd still has the real one – at least as long as the Suit and his little helpers are around. As soon as they’ve scurried off to their various lairs, Neal’s knowing smirk speaks volumes. But, frustratingly – Mozzie has seen the smirk in question, the FBI’s camera and IT system is not as up to date as they like to pretend it is – these particular volumes are closed for Mozzie.

Every time he tries to bring up the subject of the ring, Neal distracts him. And these days, Mozzie is very susceptible to being distracted.

But he can’t let it go. It’s in his nature: he’s a thief, and this piece of jewelry was just begging to be stolen. Its black-market value amounts to about 100 grand. And its sentimental value… well, Mozzie is going to ignore that part. He just wants the ring so that he can sell it, be done with it, and enjoy the early-morning surprise of feeling Neal’s arms around him as he presses a brief kiss to the top of Mozzie’s head.

“Morning.” Neal yawns and stretches, his shirt riding up his stomach, revealing rather a lot of skin.

Mozzie catches himself averting his gaze. (Old habits die hard.) And this is all still so new, so fragile that Mozzie sometimes gets scared to make a move before he destroys everything again. The magnitude of this – of Neal and the look in his eyes, right here, right now – it all gets a bit too much, sometimes.

Not that Mozzie is complaining, it’s just that he is relieved when Neal gratefully takes the cup of espresso that is waiting for him.

“You’re up early again.” He leans beside Mozzie, arms propped up on the stone balustrade, their shoulders touching. “Not still thinking about that sapphire, are you?”

“The sapphire – what?” Mozzie shakes his head, pretending to be mystified. “No. No, definitely not. I’m over that, I – ”

Neal raises an eyebrow. He is about to say something when they are interrupted by a flurry of wind and the beating of wings. It’s a sound Mozzie would recognize anywhere.

He turns around, incredulous. “ _Estelle_?”

And really, it’s her, perched on the claws of a stone griffin, shaking her beautiful gray feathers. She looks slightly ruffled, and Mozzie still feels guilty that he forgot all about her that fateful day on Aruba, two weeks ago. Only when he saw the thugs being escorted into a police car, he remembered her, and by then, he was chained to a police car himself.

“Hello there, love,” Mozzie carefully picks her up and starts stroking her head.

“Can you believe it?” He looks at Neal. “She came all the way home!”

Neal just smiles and shakes his head. “Home, huh?”

But Mozzie is already distracted again, there seems to be a small parcel, tied to Estelle’s back. She’s pecking at it, cooing in indignation.

“Look at this –”

The knot is a Square Lashing with a double Carrick Bend and a half-Hitch, creating a small, durable harness around Estelle’s breast and wings. Mozzie knows this particular combination of knots like the back of his hand. In fact, he’s the one who invented it. And the only person he recalls ever showing it to is –

“ _Neal_!”

“Yes, Mozzie?” Neal says, looking innocent as he takes another sip of his espresso.

Mozzie unpicks the knot. The string is thin undyed cotton, the kind that is often used for gardening, or for makeshift firework fuses. Perfect for tiny knots. The parcel itself is a small black velvet box, the kind that would make most girls scream hysterically.

Mozzie’s hands are shaking as he opens it. A large, blue stone in an engraved silver setting twinkles in the early morning light.

“ _You did it!_ ” Mozzie laughs in absolute disbelief, spreading his arms wide, ready hug the whole world. “You stole it!”

And there it is, Neal’s infamous smirk. But he can’t hold it for long, and it turns into his real smile – the one that starts in the corners of his mouth and then travels all the way up to his eyes – and Mozzie loves, loves, _loves_ this smile. (Because it’s so rare, and so easy to fake. Because he’s one of the few who get to see the real thing.)

And in this moment, in which, incidentally, Neal’s eyes are exactly the same shade of cornflower blue as the sapphire, Mozzie realizes what it means, this smile.

“You – you did it for me,” he says, slowly. “You stole the ring _for me_.”

And then, Mozzie doesn’t even wait for Neal’s answer. He slips the box into his pocket, takes Neal’s face into his hands, “You really did it, you glorious, incredible – ”, instead of finishing his sentence he stands up on tiptoes and smacks a big kiss on Neal’s forehead.

Neal chuckles and pulls him into a tight hug, which turns into an actual kiss, which turns into them stumbling backwards through the glass doors, knocking over an empty easel, ending up with Neal pressed against the table. It’s a messy kiss, giddy with laughter. It’s better than a stack of forged bonds, better than a base jump from a skyscraper, better even than a submarine full of stolen art. It’s real, and it’s just about the two of them. It’s the impossible celebration of a heist successfully pulled off, and a disbelieving cheer to the future.

Finally, Mozzie pulls back.

“Hey,” Neal says, trying to catch his breath. “Don’t go.”

“I can’t!” It’s impossible to contain the excitement in his voice. “There’s so much to do! I still can’t believe you did that – I – ”

Before he can get tempted by the way Neal runs his fingers through his hair, or by the bottle of Champagne he happens to know is waiting in the fridge, Mozzie grabs his jacket, pulls open the door –

– and suddenly finds himself face to face with Special Agent Peter Burke, cup of coffee in hand and look on his face as if he’s just seen a rat.

Mozzie is pretty sure that his own face does not look any better.

“Oh. Mr. Suit.” He immediately sobers up, but there’s still the familiar buzz of _plans! deals to make! secrets to keep!_ in his stomach. “To what do I owe the honor this early in the morning?”

“I could ask you the same.”

“Me?” Mozzie casually puts a hand in the pocket of his pants, closing his fingers tightly around the box. “Oh, I’m just… off to make calls, run errands, evade taxes, find proof that the moon landing was faked, that sort of thing – keeping your lot busy, basically.”

“Now, that sounds like unrestrained summer fun,” Burke says with an even more sour expression. “Don’t let me keep you. You’re already very busy as it seems, and the sun’s barely up.”

“Oh yes, the sun.” Mozzie nods knowingly. He turns around and winks at Neal, who is innocently tying his dressing gown. “ _It shines on a good many folk, but on none_ , _I dare bet, who are on a stranger errand than you and I._ ”

Burke walks past him into the apartment. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, but –”

“He’s quoting Sherlock Holmes,” Neal says. “Good morning, Peter.”

“Dr. Watson, to be precise.”

“– but as long as you keep your nose out of the very important job that Neal and I have to discuss,” Burke continues, “I won’t object.”

Mozzie snorts. “I _know_ that you’re off to an early morning stake out in that atrocity you call a van –”

Neal shrugs helplessly as Burke gives him a dirty look for spreading secret FBI information.

“ – and you’ll need my expert opinion anyways sooner or later, Suit. Give your lovely wife my kindest regards,” Mozzie says, as he closes the door behind him.

He’s halfway down the stairs to the backdoor, when he hears the unmistakable sound of expensive loafers on mahogany, clattering down the stairs after him.

“Moz! Wait!”

Mozzie turns around. “Yes?”

“Don’t forget you key.” Neal’s face is flushed as he grabs Mozzie’s sleeve and presses the key into his hand. Mozzie is too distracted by the brush of Neal’s fingertips against his skin to tell him that, technically, he doesn’t need a key. (Never did, really.)

“How about lunch?” Neal doesn’t let go of Mozzie’s wrist, keeping him close in the narrow stairway. “Sushi on 72nd street? We should celebrate.”

Mozzie nods, smiling. “I’ll meet you there.”

From upstairs, the Suit is calling that _if Neal isn’t planning on getting a move on any time soon, there won’t be any garlic pastrami left for him._

Mozzie rolls his eyes, and Neal groans.

But they’ve gotten used to this – and it doesn’t matter, really, whether Neal is going to spend his day helping the FBI find New York’s most wanted criminals, or whether Mozzie is going to be busy making deals with said criminals.

Because they’ve got this:

A moment in the early morning, sunlight dimly filtering through the skylight above, barely touching each other, but somehow, holding onto each other, taking care of each other. (The old and the new, and everything that ever was between them, caught in the one look that passes between them, before they go separate ways.)

The knowledge, that, no matter what, there’s only one person they can trust implicitly. (And that’s enough.)

Matching smiles, and a secret. (They will, very soon, have 100 grand to spend however they like, and if that isn’t good news…)

Yes, being Neal Caffrey’s best friend has a lot of obvious perks.

But it’s the less obvious ones that make a life worth living.

**Author's Note:**

> Writing this carried me through another stretch of lockdown.  
> Thank you for reading this story!  
> Leave me a comment, maybe? :)


End file.
